


Human at Heart

by LittleEvilIsa



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 20:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleEvilIsa/pseuds/LittleEvilIsa
Summary: "It doesn't matter what kind of monster you are as long as you are human at heart."Horror/Supernatural Modern AU. Based on the TV series Being Human





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, beautiful people! Hope you'll like this new story of mine. It was inspired by the TV series Being Human, both the BBC original and the American reboot. If you've never heard of it, go check it out, it's a good one.  
> As always I need to thank the fantastic titaniasfics for her beta skills and all her suggestions. Also, a giant thanks goes to akai-echo for making this beautiful banner! You talented ladies are a gift to us all.  
> The rating isn't there only because of smut (there's not gonna be that much of it, sorry). This is a horror story. It contains some disturbing images. For this chapter in particular we're talking about: assault, attempted rape, mention of death.  
> I don't own THG nor Being Human.

[ ](http://it.tinypic.com?ref=dzuj4m)

* * *

 

** or when Katniss meets Peeta again **

  
  


** March 2017 **

Boston is dark and rainy when I step off the bus. After wandering for almost two months in the South, I’d forgotten how cold it could be in New England.

The short run to the bus station is enough to get my hair drenched, but the heat inside is not enough to shake off the cold seeping into my bones.

I sit on the first empty bench that I find. I rummage through my duffel bag and take out the remnants of what I earned in Dallas last month.

Thirty bucks. To say that I’m disappointed would be an understatement.

I have to decide my next course of action. It’s late and I’m still pretty tired after the last full moon, two days ago. I could buy a ticket and sleep on the bus. I would be warm and sort of comfy but then I wouldn't have enough money to eat. I could sleep here at the bus station, wouldn't be the first time. I would be very uncomfortable but then I could eat. I don't know how much money would be left, which means that I would have to find a couple of odd jobs before I can leave again.

My exhausted body decides for me. I want to sleep in a bed. I'll find a cheap motel and buy something to eat at a vending machine there.

The man at the info point looks at me strangely when I ask him if he knows where I can rent a room for around twenty dollars. He probably thinks I'm a junkie. I don't blame him. The bags under my eyes have gotten darker recently and I constantly look around me with restless eyes. Nonetheless, he gives me the address of a cheap, albeit faraway room rental.

I lift my sweatshirt's hood over my head, hike up my bag and brace myself for the relatively long walk under the rain.

Boston wasn't exactly my first choice. The whole North East area is usually somewhere I don't go to. A bit too close to home. But Cray had almost caught up with me in Louisiana when I stopped for the full moon. I had to buy a ticket to the West side, then switch it with that of a man that was going in the opposite direction. It worked a couple of times before; if I'm lucky it'll work this one, too.

I don't know the town. I have to keep checking the directions the man at the info point wrote down for me, comparing them to the streets signs. The rain is not helping at all. Despite my attempts at keeping the note dry, most of the words are getting more and more smudged every time I take the paper out of my pocket.

The water gets in my eyes, so I have to blink continuously to see where I'm going. Wild locks of hair that escaped my braid long ago are plastered to my face, and I can barely get them out the way before they're back again. Luckily I can still somehow find my bearings. All the time growing up, spent hunting and the last year on the run have contributed positively to sharpening my senses.

I blame my tiredness and the rain for the fact that I notice someone is following me only after a good twenty minutes of marching.

Could it be Cray? No, it can't be him. Even if he discovered the trick, there's no way he could already be in Boston, let alone locate me.

Then who is it? A thief? Some acquaintance of Cray?

I don't have time to speculate. Whoever it is, I hope they don't know that I noticed them. I need to shake them off. One pursuer is more than enough for me.

Before doing anything rash, I try crossing the road. If they're just targeting me for the money, perhaps they won't follow me. If they have other intentions, though...

When I'm on the other side, I stop in front of the shop window of a clothes store, under the awning, and crouch to untie and tie a shoe. The shop is dark and the streetlights are enough to make me see a somewhat good reflection of the street behind me.

There's nothing suspicious. But the atmosphere still feels eerie to me. Trying to be discreet, I slightly turn my head and look at the other side of the street from the corner of my eye.

Two figures, I'd say men, are standing by the roadside, looking at me. I'm not sure if they actually are, but that's what my gut is telling me. And my gut is very seldom wrong. Plus, it's strange that they're just standing in the rain, not even trying to shelter themselves from the downpour.

One of the men says something to the other, who nods and crosses the road.

Is he coming after me? I trust in the fact that, if he wants to hurt me, he's not gonna do that in a public street. I really hope so.

Just to be careful I prepare myself to sprint. I'm pretty fast, hopefully he won't expect me to run and that'll give me a few seconds of advantage.

Still crouching, I wait until the man gets closer to me so he doesn't suspect a thing and... he walks right past me without giving me a glance.

I watch his retreating back as I stand up, confused. Am I imagining things? Sure, running from Cray made me a bit paranoid, but until now whenever I felt like I was being watched it always turned out to be true.

As if to confirm my suspicion, I cast a quick glance to the other side of the street and the second man is still there, still watching me.

I don't like this. I need to move.

I take the note out of my pocket and try to memorize the directions, repeating the streets' names again and again. I need to get to destination quickly, and checking the notes now and then would slow me down.

The moment I start walking, the man does the same. I stop. He stops. I walk. He walks.

Yes, he's definitely following me.

Then where did the other guy go? Could he be waiting somewhere?

I keep walking. In my peripheral view I see the man crossing the street, somehow getting closer to me.

I accelerate, moving as swiftly as possible. The streets are not very crowded, so I don't have to stop or be careful not to slam into anybody. Still, I have this feeling that I'm not going fast enough.

The man is closing in on me, I can sense it. I feel his presence behind me getting more and more imposing, like a shadow during sunset engulfing whatever is in its way. I feel the uneasiness creeping up my spine, seeping in my chest, wrapping its cold fingers around my lungs. I can't breath. My heart could burst any second now.

I start running. I'm fast, I can get away. The rain can't stop me.

Over the sound of blood rushing through my ears, I hear the sound of two sets of feet stomping on the wet asphalt, mine and my pursuer's. I use all the adrenaline and the panic rising up inside me as propeller for my legs. I barely feel my muscles protest when I speed up even more. My mind is telling me only one thing: fly.

I miss the turn I had to take to get to the room rental. It's okay, I probably can get there even from another road.

I see an alley a few meters ahead. I hope it's not a dead-end.

One last sprint and I turn so fast that I almost slam against the brick wall of a pawnshop. I get back up only to stumble again, halting my race.

The light here is very dim, but I can't be wrong about this. The other man leans against the same brick wall, hands in his pocket, a smirk on his face. At the end of the alley I can see the street I was supposed to reach.

I turn around only to find my chaser blocking the exit of the alley.

Shit. I'm trapped.

“Hi, girl. All alone on this rainy night?” he asks.

I swallow, looking everywhere but at him. “I'm not looking for trouble.”

“Oh, neither are we! Right, Marvel?”

The other man, Marvel, sniggers. “Oh, no. We're looking for some fun.”

I doubt we have the same idea of fun. I try to skirt around him, but the man is faster than me.

He grabs my left wrist forcefully. “Where're you going? Don't you wanna have fun with us?”

“ Please. I don't have much money on me.” I say. I hope that’s what they’re after.

“ We don't want your money, little wolf.”

I look up at him, terrified. What did he just say?

He smiles. “Yes. We know what you are. We could smell you from miles away. You reek of wet dog.” As he says this, his eyes turn completely black and his superior canines extend and sharpen to fangs.

Vampires. Of course. That explains how the man caught up with me so quickly and why I couldn't see any danger reflected on the window shop. And that means that this is most likely the place where my life ends. I've dealt with vampires before, during my year with Cray, I know how to kill them. But back then I wasn't alone. What can I do on my own against two of them?

Marvel gets close to me and lowers my hood. “We haven't had a proper fight in months. Our hands were itching for one. And then along you came. Aren't we the luckiest men on earth, Gloss?”

The tip of Gloss' tongue passes over the point of his left canine. He grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger and studies my face. “You're almost pretty.”

I try to shake him off. “Don't touch me, you leech.”

That probably wasn't a smart move. A shadow crosses his face. I don't see his hand descending on me, but as my head snaps to the side I feel the sharp pain and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. My lip must be split. At least my wrist is free now.

It could be my chance.

I swing my bag and hit Marvel as hard as I can. The man stumbles backward enough to create an opening for me to run through.

The wet asphalt is slippery, but I manage a good sprint.

I'm almost at the end of the alley, I see the headlights of a car approaching and then the vehicle speeding past. I see streetlights and the wet glow of a neon sign.

The strength of the hand grabbing my head would be enough to crush my skull. Instead, the man bangs my head against the wall.

White pain surges through my head.

I fall to the ground.

For a couple of seconds I don't see a thing. When my eyes somehow work again, my sight is blurred. It could be the rain still falling relentlessly on us, it could be the hit. The left eye seems to have sustained the worst from the blow. When I try to crack it open, it's as if my eyelashes are glued together.

Actually, the entire left side of my face is screaming in agony. I can feel the echo of the impact still cracking up the bones.

I lift a tentative hand to my brow, then look at it. The rain can't wash away the blood fast enough. I take it as a sign that some nasty gash must have opened up on my forehead. I don't dare touch my cheekbone, but I already know it's broken.

I can't let this stop me. I'm so close to the street, to possible safety.

I get on all fours, but a well placed kick to the ribs sends me back against the wall and on the ground. The air leaves my lungs with a painful gush.

“Where do you think you're going, bitch?” Marvel says angrily before kicking me again, this time in the guts.

“Break her leg.” says Gloss. “This way she won't run.”

He stamps on my ankle. I grit my teeth not to scream. I won't give them the satisfaction.

It's painful, but I don't think I have another broken bone.

A foot pushes my shoulder backwards and I’m on my back on the pavement. The icy rain feels like a million knives on my wounded face.

“ Keep her still.” Gloss says to Marvel, who immediately complies. His grip on my arms, suddenly stretched over my head, is painful and will probably leave bruises.

Gloss straddles me, his weight blocking my bottom half. My legs flail uselessly, but he's not budging. The panic that I was feeling earlier is nothing compared to the crippling fear rising inside me when he leans towards me. I don't feel any kind of relief when his face hovering above mine stops the rain from hitting me.

Once again he grabs my chin. He leers at me. I feel nauseous.

I don't know where I find the guts to gather all the saliva and blood in my mouth and spit them on his face.

Gloss grunts as my blood burns his skin. The rain will wash it away soon enough that it won't scar him forever. Not enough to do the same with his fury.

This time his hand closes in a fist as he hits me square in the mouth. “Bitch!” he gets out through gritted teeth.

His next move is to pull down the zipper of my ratty jeans.

No. No, no, no! No!

“What are you doing?” Marvel asks.

“Don't worry. She's just a dog, she doesn't count.”

I try to scream as loud as I can. I can't let this happen. But my voice is swallowed by the rain pouring all around.

Marvel rips a piece of my sleeve and thrusts the fabric in my mouth.

Gloss pulls down my jeans and underwear as much as he can, leaving the skin of my backside in contact with the wet asphalt.

He's working on the buckle of his belt when a voice interrupts him.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

The sound feels strangely familiar. But it's probably the relief playing tricks on my mind.

Gloss turns around, stopping his action. I don't see the expression on his face, but from his tone I can deduce that he doesn't like the person the voice belongs to. “Oh, it's the golden boy. What do you think we're doing.”

“I think you're trying to rape a girl in an alley.”

Marvels sniggers. “Then you're not as stupid as you look.”

Gloss joins him with a little laugh.

The next thing I see is a foot hitting Gloss on the side of his head, sending him against the brick wall and off of me.

“You son of a bitch!” Marvel lets go of my arms and launches himself at the newcomer.

I spit the fabric he stuffed in my mouth and pull my clothes back up as fast as I can. Then I curl against the wall, my arms up to cover my face.

I hear the noise of a fight, fists against faces, grunts, a curse, then Marvel flies onto the ground followed by a yellow umbrella.

Another grunt and the fighting stops. I turn slightly and through my fingers I see that Gloss is against the wall, his arm and upper body stuck in a strong hold by a man in a leather jacket. His head is a wet mop of blond curls.

“Are you two out of your damn mind?! Do you want to endanger the ceasefire?”

Gloss hisses. “Don't make such a fuss about it. She's just a wolf.”

“That's even worse!” he shouts. Marvel tries to get up, but the man kicks him in the chin, sending him back down. “Stay put, you animal.”

“We aren't stupid. She's not from town, she isn't part of the ceasefire.” Gloss says as he struggles against the man's hold on him, in vain. 

This last piece of information seems to enrage him even more. “If you think the wolves won't use this as an excuse to restart the war just because she's not a member of one of their packs, then you're delusional. Is this what you want? You want to start fighting again? Dying again? No, I won't allow that. I put my ass on the line for the ceasefire, and I ain't gonna get screwed over because of you two motherfuckers.”

Marvel gets up again, this time crouching, probably preparing himself to attack the man. The black eyes of the blond man and the feral growl he directs at the vampire scares the hell out of me.

I look away and make myself as small as possible.

The man is silent for a moment, the growl still reverberating in the air. Then he says, “I'll let you go for now, but don't think for a moment that Plutarch won't know about this. He'll choose a fitting punishment.”

I don't know if the vampires hesitate, but it's a couple of seconds before I hear two sets of feet leaving the alley, surrounded by curses and some choice words for the man.

He approaches me silently, bends to pick up the yellow umbrella and uses it to shelter me from the rain.

“Don't worry, miss. They're gone.” He crouches in front of me. His tone his soothing, all the anger seems gone. “Are you hurt?”

He reaches out a hand and lightly touches my shoulder. I start. He takes his hand away.

“Hey, don't worry. I'm not gonna hurt you, I swear.”

I don't move, I don't answer him.

“Miss?” The man leans forward, probably to get a better look at me. “Miss...” He trails off. “Holy shit. Katniss?”

I'm confused at hearing my name after so long on the streets, where nobody knows me. Instinctively I turn towards the sound of my name spelled out by that voice that now feels even more familiar than before. My shocked face must be the exact mirror of the one I'm looking at.

Now I understand why the voice sounded so familiar. I know the man it belongs to. I know the way that his blond curls fall over his forehead, the dust of freckles adorning the bridge of his nose, the strong jaws that he clenches every time he is deep in his thoughts, the bluest eyes that I've ever seen. The eyes of a dead man.

What the hell is Peeta Mellark doing here?

He lifts a tentative hand to my face. I'm still so shaken by his appearance that this time I don't move when his fingers lightly turn my head to the right.

He furrows his brow, worry mixed with a new anger showing up at the bottom of his searching eyes. “Look what they did to you...” I think he's talking more to himself than to me. His hand rests on my shoulder and he looks me straight in the eyes. “Did they force themselves on you?”

I shake my head.

Peeta looks somewhat relieved. He digs a handkerchief out of his pocket and presses it against my forehead. I replace his hand with mine. “You still need to go to the hospital.”

I shake my head with more energy. I can't. I need to stay off the grid as much as possible if I don't want Cray to find me. If I went to the hospital his sources could locate me and Cray would be on me in a matter of hours.

“Katniss, we have to treat those wounds.”

I find my voice, as feeble as it is. “No, please. He'll find me.”

He must see the alarm on my face. He looks like he wants to insist but keeps his mouth shut. He gives another look at my bruised face, then glances around us. He turns back to me. “Can you walk?”

I use my hands and the wall behind me as leverage and get up. My ribs protest, but that's an ache I can handle. Putting my weight on my right foot as I move my first step, though, causes a painful ripple to shoot up from my ankle.

Peeta catches me before I can hit the ground.

Silently, he picks up my discarded duffel bag, throwing the strap around his torso. It hits the shoulder bag I hadn't notice he has with him. He hands me the umbrella, then he wraps his arm around my waist and I instinctively lean on his shoulder.

I shouldn't be doing this, trusting him without question. Especially because of what he is. I very clearly saw the ferocious black of his eyes, the evident sign of vampirism. Now that I'm this close to him I can even make out the faint smell of death that vampires carry on them.

But this is Peeta. His arm around me, his body next to mine. It all feels so natural, so familiar. So comforting.

And just like that, I can't help but be assaulted by the memories of a somewhat simpler time. When all I wanted was to take care of my sister and become a nurse. When werewolves and vampires were only legends, and my biggest problem was that I didn't have time for boys but couldn't go a day without thinking of him. The one who managed to break my heart while I was breaking his over and over again. The one I thought had died four years ago so that he wouldn't have to face me ever again.

But he is here, next to me. He is dead, but he isn't.

I don't know what to think or say or do, so I just lean a bit closer to him.

I'm not certain how long we walk. I'm more focused on the stabs of pain in my side whenever I inhale, and on the fact that Peeta is holding me so that my feet just barely touch the ground. Lifting me more than supporting me as he walk as briskly as he can.

We stop in the middle of a residential street. It seems a nice one, with trees along the road and all that. The houses, mostly condos, look recently renovated. With their four or five stores, they loom large and elegant on the street. Their facades, painted in light colors, are tinted orange by the streetlights.

The house we’ve stopped in front of, the one I imagine is Peeta’s, looks much smaller in comparison - only two stores - and looks like it hasn’t had a fresh hand of paint in years.

Peeta helps me up the steps to the front door and I lean against the metal railing as he looks for the keys in his shoulder bag.

Once the door is wide open, he directs me inside. He closes the umbrella and discards it in the small foyer with our bags and his jacket, then kicks the front door closed.

A big couch sits in the middle of the living room, a loveseat on either side. A rectangular coffee table separates them from the fireplace. 

Peeta takes a blanket from the back of one of the loveseats, put it on the couch and makes me sit on it. “Wait here.” He goes into the kitchen through an opened French door and comes back almost immediately with a first aid kit.

He sits on the coffee table and sets the kit next to him.

“You must be really cold and in need of a hot shower, but I wanna make sure you don't have a concussion first. I'll medicate your other wounds when you're more comfortable.”

Now that he is talking about it, I notice that I'm shivering. I don't know if the cause is the cold rain that soaked me or what just happened in that alley.

“Katniss, I need you to remember this number. 451. Can you repeat it for me?”

“Uhm... 451?”

“Good. Remember it.”

He finds a penlight inside the kit and points its beam at my eyes. I squint.

“Does the light bother you?” he asks me moving the damned thing from one eye to the other.

“You're pointing it at me, of course it bothers me.”

“I mean more than it should.”

I shake my head.

Peeta clicks the light off and puts the pen away. “Does your head hurt?”

I resist the urge to scoff. “Well, I feel like it cracked open, but I don't know if it's because of the blow or a concussion.”

Peeta gives a little smile. “Seems legit.” He holds up the three middle fingers of his left hand. “How many are these?”

“Three.”

“Is your vision blurred or spotty?”

“No.”

“Do your arms and legs feel numb or weak?”

“They're okay, I guess.”

Peeta pinches my left arm, making me yelp. “Sorry, had to be sure. Are you experiencing vertigo? Are you nauseous?”

“None of that.”

“Are you sleepy?”

“Not really.”

“What number did I ask you to remember?”

“What?”

“The number.”

“451.”

Peeta sighs in relief. I think the examination is finally over. “I would have preferred to take you to the hospital for a CT, to be completely sure. Anyway, I don't think we'll have to worry too much.”

He half smiles again. Our eyes lock and I can't stand the concern at the bottom of his. I look away. “Can I shower now? I feel...” I trail off. I don't know what I feel.

He blinks. “Yeah, sure. Do you... Do you need dry clothes?”

I glance at my bag in the foyer. I don't think anything in there was spared by the rain. I shrug with one shoulder.

“I'll give you something of mine. Here.” He helps me up from the couch and leads me through a small corridor next to the kitchen and to a door on the left. “I'll be right back.”

I enter the little bathroom and limp to the sink. I take a look at myself in the mirror above it after discarding Peeta's handkerchief, now almost red, and holy hell, I look awful. Partially washed away blood covers the left side of my face and plasters my hair to my temple and cheek. A huge gash runs from my hairline to my left eyebrow, but at least it's not bleeding right now. My cheekbone is black and swollen, almost closing my eye. My lips are split and puffy.

I wash my face, careful not to touch the wounds so that they won't start oozing blood again.

I don't know how it happens. My breath catches in my throat. My lips tremble. A tear runs down my uninjured cheek. A sob, then another, and I have to press my hand to my mouth to stifle the horrible sounds of my crying.

I'm startled by the sudden knock on the door. I quickly wipe my tears away and clear my throat. “Come in.”

Peeta opens the door and with a self-deprecating smile says, “Sorry, I had to find something clean.” He hands me some clothes, as well as pills and a tall glass of water. “I brought you these, too. Common painkillers. I imagined you were hurting everywhere.”

I swallow the pills and drain the water. I didn't know I was this thirsty. I give the glass back to Peeta. I nod, hoping that it's enough to convey all my gratitude.

When I'm alone again, undressing turns out to be a titanic endeavor. The wet clothes stick to my skin, and my ribs protest eagerly anytime I lift my right arm even a little.

But the feeling of the hot water falling on me is heavenly. I let the water hit my head and back for as long as I can bear the temperature. I feel it washing away not only any residual blood, but also the filth left on me by this night.

I change into the clothes Peeta gave me. I have to double-knot the strings of the sweatpants and rolls up the legs three time, the shirt covers half of my thighs. Still, they're warm and comfy.

Peeta has changed in what looks like his pajamas. He's sitting on the coffee table again, barefoot, towel-drying his hair.

When he sees me emerging from the bathroom, he pats the spot on the couch I was previously seated on. “Let's patch you up.”

I wobble back to the couch and plop down on it.

Peeta puts a pair of latex gloves on and start cleaning the cuts on my face with a some kind of solution. It stings. “Sorry.” he apologizes after making me hiss.

“Don't worry.”

He moves my wet hair out of my face so he can have a better look at my wounds. “You still don't like blow drying your hair, huh?” he says with a smile.

I'd forgotten how much Peeta Mellark got to know me before he disappeared. I wonder how much he remembers, what details are more close to his heart. I know that I remember everything about him.

He studies the cut on my forehead. “Did you wash this properly?”

“Uh, I think so. In the shower.”

“This needs stitches. It'll probably leave a scar.” he says with an apology in his eyes.

I shrug. I don't care about scars. I have plenty of them. Some he saw, some are brand new.

“I don't have an anesthetic, though, so we'll have to make do with an instant cold pack.” He fishes the package out of the first aid kit, punches it and shakes it, then presses it to my forehead. “Hold it.”

I watch him looking for a smaller parcel. A disposable suture kit, apparently. Peeta sets up a sterile field on his lap and proceeds to attach the thread to the base of a curved needle.

I'm curious. “Where did you learn that?”

“I'm a nurse.”

I snort.

He laughs. “What? I can't be a nurse?”

I shake my head. “No, it's just... You wanted to be a painter, and now you're a nurse. I wanted to be a nurse, and now...” Now I'm a werewolf on the run.

“Oh, you're not a nurse?” He's obviously surprised.

I hesitate. “Not anymore. But I worked as one for two years before I left.”

Peeta doesn't comment on that. I'm grateful. He moves the hand holding the ice from my forehead to my swollen cheekbone. He gets immediately on work. Despite the fact that my skin has been desensitized by the cold, the first prick of the needle hurts.

Peeta talks, I think to distract me. “If it makes you feel better I'm not really a nurse. I'm a fake. You see, my boss, Plutarch, he's of the idea that every vampire has to help the community. He himself works in the police, to cover up when we make a mess. When I first got here they needed someone at the hospital to have easy access to the blood banks. So here I am. Still had to learn the basics, especially because this is a kind of supernatural safe house. If any guest can't get to the hospital, I'm the one that stitches 'em up.”

“It seems like a handful” I say between gritting my teeth.

“I do what they need me to do,” he says with a laugh. “Oh, about my boss. I hope you don't mind, I had to call him and tell him what happened. He said he wants to meet you.”

I'm not comfortable with it. What if the news that I'm here comes out and Cray finds me?

“I know this is a very personal thing, but it could also be a very dangerous, diplomatic accident. The vampires and the werewolves have a ceasefire agreement, and if it's found out that two of us attacked one of them, it could be a disaster. The war would start all over again.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “There was a war?”

He nods solemnly. “Terrible war. Widows, orphans, and all that shit. For decades there were hundreds of dead on both sides. The human casualties were much more, though. Of course they would be caught in the crossfire. So we came up with the ceasefire. The safety of humans is our first priority.”

“That's why you need access to the blood banks?”

His eyebrows lift in an impressed expression. “That's correct. Part of the agreement is that vampires won't feed on unwilling humans. The majority of us have switched to, let's say, precooked meals.”

“You too?” I ask.

“Oh, you'll see. The fridge is packet with blood bags.” he laughs, but becomes serious soon after. “It's a big point of contention among vampires. Fresh blood makes us stronger, and way more dangerous. Many think that giving it up to appease the werewolves made us look vulnerable, like easy prey. Those that are openly against the ceasefire try everything to break it. I'm afraid that's the reason behind your assault.”

As he talks, he finishes stitching my wound and disposes of the used needle. He takes a small jar from the first aid kit and scoops some of its contents with his forefinger. “What's that?” I ask.

“Antibiotic ointment. A bit of an overkill, but better safe than sorry.” He spreads the ointment on the wound, massaging it softly with his thumb. His hand lingers a bit more than necessary on my temple. He applies an adhesive bandage to my forehead. “Let's see that ankle now.”

He props my foot on his lap. The ankle is swollen, a purple bruise on the outer side, but I doesn't look that bad. Peeta uses some gauze as padding and wraps a bandage from under my toes up my ankle, leaving out the heel.

After that, I ask him to take a look at my ribs, too. “Those... They kicked me a couple of times. I may have two or three bruised ribs.”

“Yeah, sure.” He moves to lift up my shirt. “Can I?” he asks grabbing the hem.

I nod.

Peeta pulls the shirt up to my breasts, not exposing them, and asks me to keep the material in place. His fingers ghost lightly over the skin under my right breast and on its side, looking for bumps or depressions, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I hope he doesn't notice that.

He pulls down the shirt. “You were right, two bruised ribs. But nothing broken, luckily.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” He puts the kit back at its place in the kitchen and goes to sit on the loveseat on my left. “Can I ask you something?”

“ Sure.”

“ How is my family?”

The Mellarks. I hadn't been thinking about them in a long time. At least since they stopped looking for Peeta. I couldn't exactly tell them anything about it. Mrs. Mellark would have killed me if I'd even tried express my opinion.

I talk slowly, careful which words I use. “Last time I saw them they were fine. Your parents were still at the bakery. Wheaten was working with them. He and his wife just had a baby boy. And Rye… he dropped out of law school when you… he started working at Sae’s mini-market.”

I watch his face closely as I talk. A rueful smile graces his lips, his eyes focused on a spot between us, but seeing who knows which memory. “How long ago was that?”

“Almost a year. Sorry, I don't have more recent news.”

He shakes his head. “It's okay.” He looks at me. “Does it mean you've been on the run all this time?”

I furrow my brow as best as I can. “How did you figured that out?”

He points at the foyer. “The duffel bag. And earlier you mention a 'he' that you seemed scared would find you.”

As I always did when we were younger, I've underestimated Peeta's deducting ability.

He leans forward. “Who are you running away from?”

I look away. I don't know if I want to talk about Cray with him. But he helped me so much tonight – I probably won't be able to repay him this time either – and he seems to be expecting me to at least spend the night here. If my pursuer is on his way to Boston, to this house, I probably owe Peeta an explanation.

I take a deep breath before talking. “My alpha, Cray.”

Peeta's eyes widen. “As in ex-sheriff Cray?”

I nod. “Turns out he left the force because he became a werewolf and wanted to follow the pack. He didn't exactly like his alpha, though. He tried to kill him and take his place, but he failed and was exiled. So he came back to Pennsylvania to start his own pack. That's why he attacked Gale.”

“Gale is a werewolf, too?” The surprises seem to just keep coming for him.

I don’t like talking about Gale, so I limit myself to give him only a few information. “Turned right before me. But after transmitting the curse, Cray had to leave, I don't know why. When he came back, he found us and forced us to be his underlings. Ours wasn't a pack. He wasn't a leader. He was violent and prone to surges of anger. Neither Gale nor I accepted his authority, so he would hit us. Gale took countless beatings for me. And if he passed out, Cray would get to me. The last time he snapped. He... He...” I swallow, trying not to start crying. Remembering the deafening sound of a skull breaking against a rock, all the blood. I take a deep breath. “He killed Gale. And I ran.”

A single tear manages to escape me. I wipe it away immediately.

Peeta doesn't say a word, but I'm not looking at him, so I don't know if he wants to. I keep talking. “Since then I've been running up and down the States, trying to escape from him and lure him away from my family at the same time.” I let a small smile creep on my lips for a short moment. “Do you remember Haymitch Abernathy?”

“Isn't he your drunk neighbor?”

“The one and only. Unbeknown to most, he has history with the supernatural. I asked him to keep an eye on my family until I can go back.”

“So, you want to go back.”

I look up at him. His statement for some reason makes me angry. Of course I want to go back. I never wanted to leave my family behind. I was forced to. The moment all the mess that my life turned into will be over, I'll be on my way home. Not like him. I'm not gonna leave for years, make the people I love believe that I'm dead in a ditch, when I'm actually alive and well. Living a brand new life.

I don't voice my sudden mood swing, choosing to focus on something else. Something of great importance that perhaps Peeta could know about.

“There is something that I need to find out first.” I say. “This past year I met various packs, and from some of them I heard about a sort of legend. A way to cure the curse.”

Peeta looks confused. “A cure for lycanthropy?”

“They were just rumors, but I heard them from people in different corners of the country, from very different walks of life. The details aren't always the same. Some say I need virgin moon blood, whatever that is, others moon dust. Even if these stories don't match up, the fact that people who never met before are talking about the same thing could mean that maybe there's a grain of truth behind them.”

“Why would you need to find a cure?”

Now is my turn to be confused. “What do you mean, why? I cannot be a werewolf around my family. It's too dangerous.”

“I think you're exaggerating.”

If looks could kill, Peeta Mellark would be a pile of dust right now.

He rolls his eyes. “Listen, I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm just saying that perhaps you don't need a cure. Being a werewolf may be a curse, but it's not a death sentence. It is really something you can work on.”

I lift my right eyebrow, the only one I can move without hurting me.

Peeta keeps talking. “I'm not saying to embrace the monster. Just... learn to live with it. Trust me, it is possible. I'm a living example of that.”

He looks at me for awhile, biting his lip, He looks uncertain about something. Then he rubs his face and hangs his head down.

“Earlier I told you that fresh blood makes us stronger, but that's not the only reason why we crave it so much. Vampires are dead. We've lost that spark that is only human. It inhabits their blood. So when we feed on the living it's not them that we're taking. It's their life source. When fresh blood pumps through our veins, every fiber of our being is set ablaze, and for that fleeting, glorious moment we're alive again.” He looks me dead in the eyes. “The first time I tasted the spark it was something otherworldly. I developed an addiction. I did such terrible things to get a fix. So many. And I'll never atone for them all even if I leave a hundred lifetimes. The monster destroyed who I was. I worked very hard to build myself back together. I'm aware there is a monster inside me, but now I know that I can keep him in check. Some days the temptation is so strong that I'm paralyzed, or I start shaking so bad that I end up hurting myself. But it is worth it. And in my struggle I found out something. It doesn't matter what kind of monster you are as long as you are human at heart.”

I'm a bit shaken by this confession. I can't even start imagining Peeta Mellark ever doing something bad. To me he has always been so inherently good. And kind. There's no place in my mind for a different Peeta. But I don't let my thoughts come through. “I can't afford to think like that. You can control your monster. I can't.”

Peeta's eyes are incredibly sad, as if I didn't understand a single thing he said. He sighs. “Well, sorry but I can't help you. I've never heard of a cure. If there was one we would have used it against the werewolves long ago.”

All of a sudden, I'm exhausted. I don't wanna talk any more. I don't wanna learn new things about Peeta. I don't wanna tell him anything about me. I just wanna sleep.

“Can I go to sleep now? I'm tired.”

Peeta sighs again. “Sure. But stay on the couch. I want to keep an eye on you.”

I lie down, careful not to rest on the side of my bruised ribs. It only takes a few minutes for my body to shut down, and I slip into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

Stepping out of Peeta's car, I fix the sunglasses he lent me to block the bright light of the sun. There is a striking difference between the perfect blue of the morning sky and the cold and dark storm of yesterday. It's as if the sky has wept all its clouds.

I'm surprised to see we are headed towards a green patch of new grass, still shiny from yesterday rain. We walk – he walks, I limp – along a cobblestone path, a row of trees covered in newborn leaves on each side of us.

“This is a park.” I point out.

“Yeah, neutral ground.” 

He points me to a bench occupied by a man and a woman in the shadow of a big willow tree. When they see us approaching, they stand up. We stop in front of them.

He is a large man. There's not much else to say about him. He looks quite average, nothing about him seems peculiar. The only thing I can say is that I'm not exactly able to tell his age. If his graying hair were a telling sign, I'd say he's between fifty and sixty. But aside from this detail, nothing seems to indicate his age.

The woman looks young, probably early thirty. But her dark brown eyes communicate a sense of authority that lacks in the man's smiling face. By the scars I see peeking from her shirt collar, she must be a werewolf.

“Peeta, my boy. Finally!” the man says.

Peeta makes the introductions. “Katniss, these are Plutarch Heavensbee, the spokesman for the Ancients, the group that leads the vampires, and Cassandra Paylor, the representative for the Bostonian packs. This is Katniss Everdeen.”

Plutarch takes my hand and shake it with both his. “It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Everdeen.” I don't like the contact. I don't want a stranger's hands on me. He seems to sense this, though, because he doesn't come close to me and lets go of my hand pretty fast.

Paylor just gives me a nod in greeting. I appreciate that. I nod in response.

“Now, Ms. Everdeen.” Plutarch starts. “We were both incredibly sorry to hear what happened to you last night. In particular since two of my men attacked you, I feel obliged to apologize to you on behalf of the whole vampiric community of Boston. That was an heinous, senseless action that cannot be condoned.”

Peeta huffs. “Cut the PR crap, Plutarch. What do you want?”

The man raises a hand to his chest, offended. “Why would you ever think any of that, Peeta? We're seriously concerned about the well-being of our young friend. We wanted to hear from her if she's fine or needs anything.”

By the massive eye-roll he performs, I guess Peeta doesn't believe a word of it. “I told you anything you need to know yesterday when I called you. The only thing you had to do after that was to make sure that what those animals did to Katniss wouldn't hurt the ceasefire and to make an example out of them.” There's an undertone of anger in Peeta's voice that I've never heard before last night. Is that his monster scratching at the surface? “This meeting has no reason to happen. You must have something on your mind.”

Any expression leaves Plutarch's face, now an indifferent mask. “Fine, let's get to business. But first, Ms. Everdeen, let me tell you that the hands that struck you have been cut off. Quite literally.” He gives Peeta a sharp look. “Is that a big enough example for you, boy?”

I can hear a slow rumble start inside Peeta's throat. Without thinking I try to defuse the situation attracting their attention on me. “Did I... Did I cause you a lot of trouble?”

Plutarch's expression softens a little. “Oh, no, miss. My dearest friend Cassandra and I worked in unison to solve the problem before it even started. Isn't that right, Cassandra?”

Looking at the way Paylor tightens her lips anytime he says her name, I think this two are anything but dearest friends. “The wolves won't move as long as I tell 'em not to.” she says.

“Now, I've got some questions for you, Ms. Everdeen.” Plutarch says. “First of all, what reason brought you here in Boston?”

I hesitate. “I'm just... passing through.”

He nods slowly. “Peeta told me that you two are old acquaintances, is it correct?”

Is that the way Peeta defines me now? I'm an old acquaintance? It stings. But if this is what he wants to go with, I'm certainly not gonna explain the kind of relationship we had before I screwed it all up, before he disappeared. I just nod.

Plutarch starts firing questions. “So you came to visit him? Or perhaps you're in contact with an enemy of this city, of any of our species? Someone who wants to disrupt the peace we finally found in an attempt to make us both weak, so that they can swoop in and conquer this territory after we have decimated each other?”

“What the fuck, Plutarch!” Peeta is really not happy with this line of questioning.

Neither am I. But I'm more confused than angry about it. I shake my head. “I knew nothing about the situation here. I didn't know about the ceasefire until yesterday.”

Plutarch doesn't seem convinced. “Are you sure about that? Maybe our Peeta told you something that you told someone else, and now you're here.”

“Are you questioning my loyalty?” Peeta spits out.

“I'm not questioning anything, my boy. But that rage you're barely containing right now tells me that you consider Ms. Everdeen more than an acquaintance. Perhaps somewhere in your little male brain you thought that sharing confidential intel with her wouldn't have hurt anyone.”

I interject. “No! I didn't know he lived here. I thought he was dead.”

“Then why are you really here?” the vampire asks me.

I don't know if I want to tell them about Cray. I never know who I can trust. Also Peeta told me that Plutarch works in the police. What if he is one of Cray's contacts?

Peeta touches my shoulder gently. In the contact I feel him somewhat relax slightly. I look at him. “You can trust 'em. They may be of help.”

I take a deep breath, myself relaxing in the touch. “I'm running away from my alpha. He wants to kill me.”

Paylor's brow furrows. “For what reason?” She looks like she can't understand why.

“He wasn't a real alpha, and he didn't like that we thought that. He was violent with us. Killed my friend. I fled. I've been running up and down the country since then, I just happened to get here.”

“How long will you stay? And where?” Plutarch asks.

“She's staying at my place for as long as she'll need to get better.” Peeta answers.

I shake my head. “I don't want to impose.”

“Shut up, you're not. You need somewhere safe to heal, and no vampire can get in my house.”

Plutarch observes our exchange with pursed lips, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. He turns to Paylor cocking his head towards us. They seem to have a silent conversation with their eyes. At the end of it she doesn't seem particularly enthusiastic about it. She gives a curt nod.

He looks back at me and his smile is sickening. “I have a proposition for you, miss.”

I cast a glance towards Peeta. He is wary. I feel like that, too. But I listen what the vampire has to say.

“Settle here in Boston indefinitely.” he starts. “I'm certain that Peeta won't mind taking you in. You'll be under the protection of both vampires and werewolves. We will be ready to stop your alpha if he'll come to town. We're prepared to take on any enemy. In exchange, you can help us with our cause.”

It's not gonna happen. I cannot stay here more than necessary. And I don't feel safe knowing that Cray could catch up with me anytime, no matter if I have supernatural bodyguards.

Peeta talks before I can voice my thoughts. “You're unbelievable. No.” He turns to me and explain, “He wants us to be the cover couple of the ceasefire. A vampire and a wolf living in peace under the same roof. The perfect propo.”He looks back at his boss. “I was the one that came up with the idea and I'm okay with being the face of the ceasefire. But I'm not letting you take advantage of Katniss' situation and use her for your gain.”

Oh, I see now. We were right not to trust him wholeheartedly.

Plutarch sighs. “Let the young lady speak for herself.”

“I can't accept. I'll be on my way as soon as possible.” I say.

He's not satisfied with my answer, I see that.

Paylor bites her lip, probably to hide a smile. She recovers immediately, though. “Whatever you decide to do,” she says, “the wolves have your back during your stay. You don't have to do anything for us. And I'm sure the same goes for the vampires, right, Heavensbee?”

The man just nods. Apparently he doesn't like being contradicted. But he must see that it's the only thing he can do right now.

Soon after our meeting ends. Peeta and I go back to his car, leaving Plutarch and Paylor behind. All the way to the vehicle I feel the man's eyes following me, burning a hole in my back. Did I just got myself in a worse situation than the one in which I was already?

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my new story! I hope you like this chapter enough to stay for the ride. Let me know what you think, either here or on my Tumblr (littleevilisa) :D


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